It was on this one point of Rose’s history, the cause and manner of her leaving Mrs. Hagood, that the Blossoms decided reticence to be best. As Mrs. Blossom said, “Mrs. Hagood is a stranger to us, and admitting that she was at fault, it seems to me neither kind nor right to repeat what might give others an unfavorable impression.” Gentle Grandmother Sweet’s advice to Rose was, “The best way to keep from speaking of it is to put it out of thy thoughts, through that spirit of forgiveness, which we who err so often should always be ready to show.” Not long after Mrs. Patience’s return from the city Rose received an offer of a home for the winter, with fifty cents a week wages, and the privilege of attending school afternoons. As she had seldom possessed a cent she could call her own this seemed like a small fortune; besides, as she had told Ben Pancost, she understood more than most of her age what it cost to live, and so was the quicker to see that with all the Blossoms’ generous hospitality, economy was carefully considered. For they were far from rich, this houseful of women with no outside breadwinner to depend on, and with her sturdy, independent nature Rose shrank from being a burden on them, the more so because of their affectionate kindness. Miss Silence and Mrs. Patience having taken Rose under their wing were unwilling she should go, unless into a permanent home, but Mrs. Blossom held that Rose should decide the question for herself, especially as she would still be in the village where they could watch over her. While Grandmother Sweet placidly observed, “Providence seems to have opened the place for Rose, and the openings of Providence are usually for some wise purpose.” The offer had been most unexpected. Miss Fifield had come to Silence Blossom to have a dress fitted, and in the familiar conversation which accompanied the process she had remarked that she and her sister were doing their work themselves as the hired girl had gone home sick. “Of course,” she explained, “we have Ellen Gill in to do the washing and ironing and scrubbing; not but that we could do it all, for it was my father’s boast that his daughters were thoroughly capable. And they all are but Eudora; she will not, and while I’m willing to do my share I’m not willing to do mine and other people’s too. I don’t believe Eudora would soil her hands if her life depended on it. If you’ll believe me, Silence Blossom, she has gone and made a mop to wash dishes with. It makes me sick, it positively does, to see her mopping the dishes off, and lifting them out with a fork, for fear the dishwater will make her hands rough.” And Miss Fifield, tall, spare, and angular, who counted all attempt at personal adornment the sign of a weak mind, gave a little sniff of contempt.